


Ice

by ArgentNoelle



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Asgard, Fantastic Racism, Fear, Fear of Discovery, Friendship, Gen, Ice, Kid Fandral, Kid Fic, Kid Hogun, Kid Loki, Kid Sif, Kid Thor, Loki's POV, Paranoia, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Rescue Missions, Secrets, Self-Discovery, Sif's POV, Sneaking Around, children can be cruel, wrong conclusions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:12:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2482622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentNoelle/pseuds/ArgentNoelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prank involving Loki and the Warriors Three goes horribly awry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You put him in a barrel of _ice_?”

Fandral retreated hastily beyond the immediate range of Sif’s arms, but met her outraged stare with an easy grin and a shrug. “Well, he’s always tricking us—I don’t see why we shouldn’t trick him back.”

“You could _kill_ him.”

Hogun and Volstagg exchanged silent glances behind Fandral’s back, Volstagg reaching out to grab Fandral by the arm.

“What are you—” Fandral started, shaking away.

“Thor,” Hogun said quietly. Everyone’s eyes followed his, traveling to the other end of the courtyard, where Thor had appeared from behind the pillars. He didn’t seem to be angry, but Loki wasn’t following him—which could mean only one thing. He was still searching.

Fandral swallowed, suddenly looking very pale.

“Where is he?” Sif hissed quietly.

“Near the kitchens—you know—in the ice for tonight’s feast. I wouldn’t put him in the icehouse, I wasn’t trying to kill him, I thought he would be found before anything happened—”

“You should probably shut up,” Hogun advised in a low voice.

Sif ran off before Thor could meet up with his three guilty-faced friends. She hoped they would have the good sense not to give it away. If she was quick, he might not even know anything had happened. (Another, more panicked part of her wondered what it would be like to die in a barrel of ice, and how quickly such a thing could happen. If they had inadvertently killed one of the crown princes… she knew the punishment for that.)

Sif skidded into the kitchen, looking around for the ice barrels, standing near the edge of the pantries, almost completely blocked by bags of grain and barrels of mead for the feast. She ducked down, weaving herself through the busy throng of people. She was still short enough that it was easy to slip her way through without really being seen, and soon she had gotten across the kitchen and to the barrels. There were three of them.

“Loki,” she said quietly. “Loki, can you hear me? Tell me which barrel you’re in.”

Nothing. Sif dragged a crate up so she could reach the top of the nearest barrel, trying it to see if the top was loose. It wasn’t. She went on to the second one.

It was the third one—of course—that did it. Her shaking fingers slipped up under the lid and she pushed, muscles straining, but was unable to lift it more than a few inches. She looked around wildly. A stick would do, but there was nothing…

She grabbed another crate, and another, stacking them atop the first. Now she could climb up almost to the lid of the barrel, and with a great heave she pushed the lid up. A burst of cold flew from inside and the lid landed on the floor with a crash. There was no time to see if anyone had heard—in the midst of the ice she could almost see something—a shadow—a figure. She dug her hand down, flinching at the cold shock, pushing as hard as she could through the chips and shards until she felt something different. It was not any warmer than the ice but it was soft and smooth—an arm. A hand. She pushed her other hand in, leaning over farther until she was afraid she would fall in herself, reaching until she got her hands around fabric, pulling up under his arms. At first the body was unresponsive. She closed her eyes, biting her lip so hard it bled, pulling up, willing the body to move.

As if in answer, there was a stir. Faint at first, but then more vigorously, he was fighting her, trying to push her away.

“I’m _saving_ you, you idiot!” Sif said, as loud as she dared, sweat dripping from her brow and down her back. She braced her knees against the side of the barrel and tugged. The crates slipped and she fell backward, but even in her shock she thought to grab tighter to the body she only just held.

They tumbled to the ground.

When she opened her eyes, she saw him.

He was lying next to her, exhausted, wearing the prince’s clothes. He _had to be_ the prince—but his skin was bluer than the ice allowed, and when he met her eyes—

She could not help her shriek. A pair of inhuman red eyes stared back at her, the pitiless red of the monsters that all of Asgard knew to fear— _she had rescued a frost giant_.

* * *

Sif scrambled to her feet, thoughts racing. Why was it here? What was it doing? Where was Loki?

The thing—it was small, she noticed now, nearly Loki’s height—blinked. It looked down at its hands.

“What have you done to me?!” it said at last, fury and terror mixing into a strange, shaking noise.

It was Loki’s voice.

“Get away from me—” Sif said coldly. She backed up, taking one of the fallen crates in her hand and holding it before her like a shield. “Get—get away from me, monster. No! Wait! Tell me what you’ve done with Loki!”

“I _am_ Loki—what have you done to _me_! I _demand_ to know! What is this curse?!” It stood up, clenching its fists. “I’ll have you flogged—”

“You can’t,” Sif said. “You can’t, no one would believe you, you’re a _jotun_.” She wondered who she was trying to convince.

But the monster flinched. “You lying—” he cursed.

“I’m not lying!” Sif shrieked. “I’m not lying, _look at yourself_!”

It looked at its own hands as if it had never seen them before, breathing heavily. Some sort of emotion passed over its face, something that had no place in such a barbaric creature.

It made an aborted, half-strangled sob that turned into a laugh. “You—you _have_ to be lying. It wasn’t enough to just kill me! You would have me cast out from Asgard, a traitor—”

Sif lunged forward, bringing the crate down into its stomach. It was winded and crashed to the floor, and she brought the crate down upon its head again and again. It seemed to be fighting but she could not tell—perhaps it was only trying to get away. Tears streamed down her face, and blood ran from cuts on her hands where the crate splintered.

But a noise brought her out of her fury before she could finish the beast off. Footsteps, and the annoyed voice of the head cook. “What in the _world_ —” the muttered words came slowly to her ears.

Sif froze, dropping the crate. If she was found, she would be the culprit, the cause of all this trouble. The space behind the barrels was covered in overturned crates and melting ice and the Jotun lay still, curled into a fetal position, arms over its head as though to shield itself.

Blood covered it. _Red_ blood, coming from deep gashes in its arms and legs. When it lifted its head cautiously, a trail of blood seeped from its hairline, down to its lips. It licked at it unconsciously.

Sif ran, ducking out of the exit before the cook could round the corner. After a short hesitation, she heard footsteps behind her, and when she turned to look, she saw the Jotun following her. Not chasing her—it, too, was running away from the wrath of the cook.

They had hardly gotten to safety when a shriek rent the air. “ _Who did this_?!” the words were loud and full of dire purpose.

She crouched down to see that the way was clear before dashing across the courtyard. The Jotun followed. She dug an elbow into its side but it only scowled and pressed closer to her, forcing her to run faster. They melted into the shadows of a small garden between two walls.

Finally Sif collapsed with her back to the wall. The plants and bushes made a screen to cover them, the trees a small canopy through which even the sun could come through only patchily.

The frost giant crouched, sitting poised on the balls of its feet like an animal about to flee. For a few minutes, no one made a sound. Their breathing slowly became less hurried, and Sif let her body relax—though she kept a wary eye on the enemy.

It wasn’t paying any attention to her. It seemed, in fact, to be fascinated with itself—it stared at its own limbs with something like terror.

“It’s not real,” it said at last. Loki’s voice again. She tried not to listen. “It _can’t_ be real.”

Sif let her bare toes curl into the soft earth. She pressed her hands into the ground.

It noticed her once more, but made no move toward her, only opened its mouth, eyes wide and scared. “Sif, please.”

She tried to avoid its gaze.

“Please, what have you done to me?” it reached out in supplication, but before it could touch her she smacked its arm away, hard enough to bruise. She curled up in as much of a fighting stance as she could make without standing up—a warning.

“ _Don’t_ ,” she said.

It drew back, more in bewilderment than in fear.

But then it frowned, and began to speak. “What do you want? I’ll give it to you. Whatever you want. Anything. You can take it off now, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“ _Loki_ —” the name slipped out without her consent, hearing his voice so desperately conjuring up far-fetched conclusions. She could not look at him. _It_. Her cuts were beginning to sting. She stood up.

“Yes?” it was eager, far too eager. Far too familiar. Even out of the corner of her eye she could see it, wearing Loki’s clothes, behaving like Loki.

She told him.

“You must be a changeling,” she said.

“That’s—what—you can’t be serious. I thought we had a deal!” It stood up as well, face now ugly in fury.

“Don’t you see?” she said, slowly. “It all fits, doesn’t it? You were always a frost giant. They just slipped you into the castle in place of the real Loki, and you didn’t know because you were bewitched. But when you were in all that ice—”

_When it was a choice between death and your true form, the enchantment could no longer hold out. Don’t you see?_

She could not speak. She could not _look_ at it, knowing it had been her friend all these years.

Some part of her almost felt sorry for it.

“That’s impossible,” Loki said flatly.

“Go,” she answered. “Go. I won’t say anything if you go now. You can leave. No one will know.”

It tried to meet her eyes once again, but she looked at her feet, twisting her hands, digging her nails into the cuts.

It left.

* * *

When Sif finally made her way back to Thor and his friends, they were playing a game with stones in the dirt. Loki was with them. His clothes were clean. There was no trace of any cuts, no trace of any blue skin. But he was silent and sat beside them without speaking, and he was not reading either. He was looking at his hand, a frightened, haunted cast in his eyes.

“What happened to you?” Thor asked, seeing the small cuts that littered her hands and arms. She had not bothered going to a healer—they were small enough wounds, and were already scabbing.

She shrugged. “I had a battle with a thorn bush.”

“Did you win?” Thor asked eagerly.

“Of course.”

* * *

When the day was nearing its end and they finally dispersed, Fandral came up to her for a moment.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Sif nodded, resisting the urge to look back at where the princes had left, Loki trailing behind the older prince. She did not say she wished she had been too late. It would have been better if Loki had died.


	2. Chapter 2

Loki walked in the shadows, taking care not to be seen. There was no telling what could happen to him if he was seen, not when he looked like this. He could not travel freely throughout the palace, but that wasn’t his destination. The smokehouses were not far, he could see the thin grey ribbons rising in the distance. He had sneaked around the palace grounds many times before, but never before had he felt so vulnerable. Every sound seemed to herald danger. The sun was beating down unbearably hot, and everything looked different. It was too bright.

Loki crouched behind a tall statue, carefully measuring his breathing. People were walking to and fro—not many, but enough. Surely they would notice him. He squinted, taking a deep breath, eyes fixed on the smokehouses. A sudden dash might do it. There was no other way. He waited, the sound of his heartbeat loud in his ears.

And then—for one second, it was empty, but for one person looking the other way. It was his best chance. He sprang up, running, fumbled with the latch for one terrifying second, and ducked in, closing the door behind him.

The smell of smoking meat filled the air. The fire was small, but even so the room was sweltering. He resisted the urge to move away, instead walking up close and kneeling next to it, eyes watering as the smoke irritated them. He waited. Surely, something would happen soon. If it didn’t happen… he did not know what he would do. He would be caught and killed. They would think he had killed the real Loki.

His eyes were watering in the smoke. He knew he was not crying, but he could not properly breathe as he tried to keep a sob in his throat. He stuck his fist in his mouth then withdrew his hand at a sharp pain. He reached into his mouth with one tentative finger, poking at his teeth. They didn’t feel right. Near the corner of his mouth were little teeth that came to a point. They were razor sharp.

He had _fangs_.

Loki pulled his hand away, staring down at them in shock. He glared at the fire, anxiety rising in his throat. “Come on, work,” he whispered. Surely it should have worked by now. Surely it was hot enough. He felt like he would melt.

Another thought came to him. He couldn’t melt, could he? Surely not… but what if he could? What if he was melting _right now_ , and he just didn’t notice? There wouldn’t be a body. He would vanish without a trace.

He reached his hand closer to the flame, almost touching it. It was torturous. It was agony. But it was not turning color.

He jerked his hand away, sucking on it and giving the fire a dark glare.

He would wait. He would have to wait, even if…

If didn’t matter. It would work. Loki moved farther away from the fire.

He waited.

Loki woke up from a fitful dream and blinked. Even before he looked down he could feel the difference. He was himself again. It was all right.

But he looked down anyway, turning his hand over and over before he could make himself move.

When he walked out of the smokehouse he saw he had not been as long as he thought. The sun was still up, it was only late afternoon. He knew where the nearest stash of healing stones were located, and made his way there. He was no longer worried about anyone seeing him—if they asked him what had happened he would be able to think of some story to tell. He crumbled them onto his wounds. He had never needed to use more than a pinch or two of one, excepting for the time he broke his leg, but this time he needed an entire stone. He hoped no one would notice it was gone. He ran until he found Thor.

Thor was with his friends. Loki did not look at Fandral. He moved close to his brother.

“There you are!” Thor said. “I was looking for you all day!”

“Maybe I was hiding from you,” Loki muttered.

Thor grinned. “You wouldn’t do that. Not without challenging me to find you first.”

Loki smiled. It felt stiff and fake, but Thor didn’t notice. They started playing a game. Loki didn’t join in.

He followed Thor into the palace when the sun cast long shadows over the ground, trailing his hands along the walls. They were warm from the heat of the sun and the torches that flickered on the walls.

He followed Thor to dinner, sitting next to him as usual. He was not very hungry. The terrible feeling in his stomach did not make him want to eat. Thor didn’t notice, craning his head to listen to the stories of the warriors nearby. Loki twisted his hands under the table.

The music had not started yet. That was Loki’s favorite part, usually. Tonight he wished he could leave right now.

Another warrior was talking. Not a young one, he was older. He had started recounting his old battles, and of course this led to the War. Loki listened to his tales of killing monsters and shrank closer to Thor’s side. He knew no one could tell. No one had been able to tell before. But he began to get a strange feeling. It was a hot, twisted feeling, as though he were about to scream, as though something were tied up inside of him.

Loki had never liked those kinds of stories. He had thought the heroes dull and uncomplicated. He much preferred to hear about adventurers and wizards and strange tricksters that came out of the night.

Now he wondered if he had known. Maybe he had never liked those stories because part of him had known that they held no part for him, except as the monster.

He felt sick. Loki grabbed the edge of Thor’s tunic with one hand, twisting the fabric between his fingers. He could not bring himself to grab Thor’s hand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fangs kind of just happened. I have no idea why. It's random. Help.


End file.
